Celine Ong

This morning, the house stirred early. My mum reminded me to be careful as she washed the toilets, then told me to take my things and go out before she started the vacuum cleaner. She mentioned buying fish porridge for me, though pig liver soup was too heavy. Between words, she reminded me again to brush up my speaking and vocabulary — lessons tucked into ordinary mornings.

On bus 28, I carried my thoughts with me. After alighting, I used the toilet, though the door kept banging as I tried to...

This morning, I spoke of a small thing — oil for comfort, something my father wanted.
But my words were brushed aside, called a copy, unworthy of notice.
The vacuum roared before I was ready, and the air carried the sharpness of dismissal.
I tied my socks, counted coins for lunch, and stepped out into the street of moving mornings.

On the bus, I brushed against strangers, offering quiet apologies.
A bag struck my wrist — a small ache that lingered.
When pressed aside at the door, I stayed silent,...

This morning began with a pen on my table.
A small thing, yet it sparked words sharper than I wished.
I shifted it anyway, quietly,
and stepped into the day with a late breakfast.

I ran for the bus, breath chasing time.
At the crossing, a couple held hands,
their quiet bond a contrast to my hurried feet.
The red man flickered and I quickened,
choosing motion over stillness.
At the lift, a boy reached for the same seat.
“Excuse me,” I whispered.
He smiled, and turned away
softness instead of struggle.
On...